


here's my formal invitation (you and me go masquerading)

by softgrantaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, F/F, F/M, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Enjolras, POV Multiple, Pining Enjolras, Trans Enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-18 18:04:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16522037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrantaire/pseuds/softgrantaire
Summary: In which there's a masked "ball", poor decisions are made, an Excel spreadsheet is created, and Grantaire attempts to smash the patriarchy one over sexualised costume at a time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enjoloras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/gifts).



“Combeferre! Enjolras! I have the best idea!” Courfeyrac announces, waltzing into their apartment. 

Combeferre looks up at him from his armchair, less surprised at his sudden appearance than he ought to be. 

Enjolras sighs loudly from the kitchen; no matter how many times Courfeyrac let himself in to their apartment, Enjolras still wasted energy on reminding Courfeyrac he wasn’t actually a resident. 

“Courfeyrac, you realize you don’t live here.”

Combeferre smiles as he closes his book. “Hello, Courfeyrac. What brings you here today?”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes at Enjolras’s predictability but ignores him to smile back at Combeferre. Combeferre in turn ignores the flutter in his chest that is as reliable a response to Courfeyrac’s smile as Enjolras’s sighs are to his appearance in their flat. 

“Marius is locked in his room translating a dozen old smutty letters that for some reason need to be translated from German to English and crying because he didn’t know there were so many ways to say ‘cock’ in 19th century Germany. Besides- ” Courfeyrac stares pointedly at Enjolras “- if I wasn’t here all the time, you and Combeferre wouldn’t take breaks from work. You’d drink so much coffee and never sleep, ever, so really, I’m doing you both a huge favour.”

Enjolras sighs again and checks his watch. “I’m going to be late for work if I don’t shower now. Tell me about this ‘best idea’ later, Courf?”

He leaves the room, muttering to himself something about no one ever actually giving Courfeyrac a key. 

“Who’s going to tell him I stole his key and cut myself my own copy?”

“You could have just asked, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre laughs softly. “I would have lent you mine.”

“Ahh, but would that be as fun as making Enjolras face do the ‘Grantaire just said something I don’t agree with’ face?” he replies. He pulls his eyebrows together and raises his shoulders until they’re close to his ears, narrowing his eyes in an exaggerated imitation of Enjolras.

“You missed the pout and slight confusion.”

Courfeyrac’s laugh seems surprised. Possibly because Combeferre doesn’t tend to play along. “Okay, is this better?”

He pulls his brows together and narrows his eyes once more, but this time he huffs with a pout, tilting his head to the side in confusion. 

“Ahh, yes. Perfect.” Combeferre nods, watching Courfeyrac pull out his phone and take a quick selfie.

“I had to send it to Grantaire,” he explains once his phone is placed in his pocket. “Maybe he has some tips for how to improve my impression.”

“Well, if anyone has seen Enjolras’s ‘Grantaire just said something I don’t agree with’ face, as you so eloquently put it, it’s Grantaire,” Combeferre sighs. 

“According to Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says, reading the incredibly quick reply he received, “I’m missing the righteous fury and utter hatred Enjolras usually sends his way.”

“Grantaire thinks I hate him?”

Courfeyrac turns towards Enjolras who had just walked back into the room. 

Combeferre coughs awkwardly. How could he tell his best friend that yes, indeed, the man who Enjolras spends rather a lot of time yelling at doesn’t think Enjolras likes him.

“What?” Courfeyrac squeaks, nearly dropping his phone as he put it in his pocket. “Who said that? Grantaire, hate you? Anyway, bye Enjolras!”

And with that, he shuffles Enjolras out the door, practically throwing his briefcase at him. Combeferre chuckles at the expression on Enjolras’s face as he’s for lack of a better term thrown out of his own flat.

Courfeyrac clears his throat, turning back to Combeferre when the door closes behind Enjolras. “But no, that’s not the reason I came here on this beautiful morning.”

Courfeyrac had decided, as he is wont to do, that it was about time Les Amis finally had a masquerade ball.

“Well, it’s your birthday,” Combeferre shrugs when Courfeyrac tells him. “No one can really stop you from throwing your own birthday party. But you’re helping me with my costume and convincing Enjolras.” 

Courfeyrac’s answering grin is so bright, all he can do is smile back. As Courfeyrac leaves the room to make a phone call - reserving the Musain for the aforementioned masquerade birthday party - he picks up the book he was reading before Courfeyrac burst into their living room. He’d do anything to see that smile. Even wear a costume and mask to Courfeyrac’s next birthday party.

Courfeyrac returns and throws himself down on to the couch, resting his head in Combeferre’s lap. He sighs, setting his book down. There is no way he’s getting work done with Courfeyrac here.

Combeferre looks down at Courfeyrac, who’s smiling brightly and wiggling his eyebrows. He gives in to Courfeyrac’s obvious request and strokes his fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair. Who says R can’t be the only masochistic one when it comes to love?

~

He makes the announcement at the end of the next meeting.

“Why do we need to have a masquerade party? There aren’t any particular holidays besides the end of term,” Feuilly asks.

Courfeyrac just waves his hand dismissively.

“If a man can’t have a masquerade ball for his own birthday, what’s the point of even having a birthday?” Courfeyrac exclaims. Ah, right. Courfeyrac’s birthday. “And no one will be getting in without a costume and a mask, so don’t even think about it.”

This he directs across the room to Enjolras. Grantaire snickers, because Enjolras would without a doubt try to show up without a costume.

“What’s the point of having masks if we only invite people we know?” Enjolras replies to Courfeyrac’s pointed look, rolling his eyes. “Most of us live together, so it’s not like we won’t see each other’s costumes.”

“That isn’t the point, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac cries. “It’s all part of the ambience of a masquerade!”

“Yeah, Enjolras,” Grantaire snorts. “It’s all part of the ambience of the masquerade. Respect the ambience. I know it’s not as exciting as sitting at home whispering sweet nothings to your briefcase as you pull folders out of it, but it’s Courfeyrac’s birthday.”

One of Grantaire’s greatest pleasures is watching Enjolras’ face when he wasn’t pleased with something Grantaire had said. His brow furrows and his lips pinch together, like Grantaire is a particularly sour lemon Enjolras made the mistake of tasting. Luckily, Enjolras never disappoints, and he sees this face more often than not.

“Do you know how hard it is to find a couple costume when you’re not a couple?” Joly whines, interrupting Grantaire’s inner soliloquy about Enjolras’ disdainful face.

“Probably just as hard as finding a costume when you don’t know how to have fun.” And because Grantaire doesn’t know how to not be an asshole, he has to direct this at Enjolras. “Right, angel face?”

Enjolras’ eyes narrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Courfeyrac spins around in the middle of the room, taking in the effort he and Grantaire had put in to make it look sufficiently bourgeoisie. “Perfect.”

“Now, turn around.” Grantaire steps closer to Courfeyrac. “While I’m sure Combeferre would love to see you in just your petticoat, we should probably get the rest of your costume on.”

Ignoring Courfeyrac’s squeak of protest at his comment, Grantaire begins to tighten the corset he had just placed around Courfeyrac’s waist. The things he does for his friends.

When Courfeyrac wass finally dressed and made up, Grantaire takes his leave. But not before the first of the guests began to arrive.

“Oh my god,” Courfeyrac laughs from his right. Grantaire is too busy choking on nothing to even summon a pleasant facial expression. Enjolras had said ‘You’ll see’ when asked about his costume; Grantaire had just assumed Enjolras hadn’t picked something yet. He was definitely not expecting this.

Enjolras looks around at the Musain - almost unrecognizable with Courfeyrac’s handiwork - before heading over to where Grantaire and Courfeyrac were standing.  
Enjolras shrugs when he reaches them, “I thought it’d get a laugh.”

A laugh, he says. Grantaire takes a closer look at Enjolras’ costume - gold and white wings extend from his back, and he’s donned a white toga pulled snug across his chest. His hair has been tied back with a ribbon, and there was a halo nestled in his curls. His mask was a small piece of white lace. A laugh.

Courfeyrac snickers again when he notices Grantaire’s silence.

While Grantaire is making a valiant effort to ignore Courfeyrac, Enjolras notices his lack of costume and turns to Courfeyrac. “I thought no one was getting in without a costume and mask!” “I was just helping set up,” Grantaire squeaks, because Enjolras is dressed like an angel and there’s so much skin. He clears his throat, trying to gather his wits. 

“I’m just heading home now. Courfeyrac asked me to help him move things around and set up the refreshments table, and my costume would make heavy lifting very difficult.”

~

Enjolras raises a brow.

“And no, I’m not telling,” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “You’ll appreciate it though, it’s sort of a ‘fuck you’ to societal expectations.”

“Oh, is it? Is that why you decided on it?” grins Courfeyrac, who was simply watching Grantaire set up. “I mean, if that’s the only reason you chose it, sure, but I’m sure there were other reasons.”

Grantaire hums. “I guess it does make my legs look fantastic.” He winks.

“Wait, you know what it is?” Enjolras turns to Courfeyrac. He couldn’t possibly feel jealous - this is Grantaire. And Courfeyrac. Why would he be jealous of either of them? So he doesn’t. Feel jealous. At all.

“I had to help him with his costume, so it was tit for tat. It wasn’t fair that I didn’t show off mine,” Grantaire calls over his shoulder as he’s heading towards exit. He turns just before he leaves and bows. “Now, gentlemen and ángeles, I must bid thee ado, and change into my own costume.”

Enjolras is torn between frustration and confusion, eventual interest (and sequential frustration) taking over.

“Where did you get your costume, Courfeyrac?” Courfeyrac looks down at his costume and smirks back up at Enjolras.

“R helped me find it and put it all together. He has connections. This corset is an antique.” Enjolras files that away. Grantaire has connections in the antique world. “Do you like it?

“It’s very…,” Enjolras was almost in physical pain trying to hold in his real thoughts of Courfeyrac’s costume. “Historically accurate.”

Of course he would dress as Marie Antoinette. Of course it would be incredibly accurate and extravagant. Of course Grantaire had helped him make it. Enjolras also knew that someone would be hit with his mask at some point in the night, because Courfeyrac and a hand held masquerade mask is not an incredible combination. 

“That’s so much nicer than anything I was expecting! I was expecting ‘bourgeoisie scum!’, or a literal guillotine. Historically accurate is almost a compliment!”

“It’s your birthday, I’ll save my real thoughts for tomorrow,” he sighs, though looking at Courfeyrac’s dress, and wig, saving it for tomorrow might be too much to ask - especially if Courfeyrac has spiked the punchbowl.

“Thanks, angel face.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras replies with a scowl. Definitely too much to ask.

“What, you’ll let Grantaire call you angel in thirty different languages, but I can’t call you angel face in one while you're literally dressed as an angel?” Enjolras can tell Courfeyrac is three seconds from bursting into laughter. “But, I get it. R’s different because he’s special.” 

Enjolras was about to protest when Combeferre walks through the door. 

Combeferre, whose costume turns out to be a bee. The black button up and slacks he’s wearing are striped with yellow and there are wings spouting from his back. His mask has an antennae attached to it and there’s a small sign on his chest that just says ‘Save me!’.

Courfeyrac seems to be rather affected by it, muttering something under his breath about fitted shirts and saving the bees. Enjolras can’t comprehend what Courfeyrac’s muttering could possibly mean so he just continues to watch his friends enter the Musain.

Combeferre is followed by Jehan, who is Persephone—both Persephone in the warmer months as well as the months spent in the Underworld. It was quite fitting when Jehan, making sure that everyone understood how much of a badass Persephone was, explained it. One half of Jehan is bright and covered in flowers while the other is darker, but no less beautiful. 

(“It’s almost as pretentious as Jehan is,” Grantaire had exclaimed when Jehan was explaining.)

Eponine rolls her eyes when Courfeyrac questions her costume, which is just jeans, a t shirt, and cat ears. “You know I fucking hate fancy dress, Courf. This is as good as you were ever going to get. I even put extra eyeliner on so it looked like a mask.” She immediately grabs a drink.

Cosette laughed as she did wrapped an arm around her girlfriend’s waist. In her all pink suit and mask, the juxtaposition of Elle Woods and Eponine’s sad attempt at a costume was laughable. "We're all very proud of you, my love."

Marius is dressed as Napoleon, which Courfeyrac laughs loudly at. 

“Pontmercy! Come be bourgeoisie scum with me!” he calls across the room. “Let’s see how many times we can get Enjolras to scowl.”

Enjolras doesn’t scowl.

Bahorel shows up ‘gift wrapped’, wearing practically just a ribbon. His mask is larger than his entire costume combined, red feathers draping down his chest. Courfeyrac whistles at him, while Marius immediately blushes.

He looks very pleased with his creativity, walking over to the group that had gathered around the refreshments table. Up close, Enjolras can see the name tag on his very bare chest that just reads ‘To: Everyone, From: God’.

Feuilly, dressed as Annie - because a small orphan girl is obviously what Feuilly would show up as - just keeps rolling his eyes as he follows behind him. He manages to look both fond and absolutely done with Bahorel, a feeling the rest of Les Amis know all too well. 

But then Grantaire returns and Enjolras actually spills his drink - Courfeyrac hides a snicker with the small fan he’s holding. Enjolras blames it on the obviously spiked punch. 

“We found it at a fetish shop,” Bossuet smirks from behind them. Enjolras startles, because he was too distracted by Grantaire - wait, no, no he wasn’t distracted by Grantaire because it was Grantaire - to realize that Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta had arrived dressed as Pokemon trainers. “Grantaire knows all the best places in Paris. And the worst.”

“He looks...,” Enjolras stutters and then pauses completely.

“Like he wants to take down the patriarchy one hypo sexualized costume at a time?”

Enjolras jumps when Eponine appears out of thin air. She does it with a smile and even with the cat ears it is terrifying. 

“That apron doesn’t look like it’d be much use,” muses Joly. Musichetta snorts. “But the stockings look nice. Maybe I should get some myself.” Bossuet nods enthusiastically.

“His eyeliner is better than mine,” Musichetta pouts. 

“You do know I can hear you all? This room isn’t nearly as big as you think it is,” Grantaire says, brushing Joly’s cheek with the feather duster he was holding. Up close, his costume was even more distracting. A very, very short lacy black dress paired with thigh-high stockings, garter belt, and high heels. Even the little hat in his curls was - Enjolras downs his drink. Now was absolutely not the time and place for revelations.

Revolutions? Great at any time, even a party. Revelations caused by Grantaire’s skimpy French maid costume? Not so great.

“And there is no way my eyeliner is better than yours, Chetta. That’s false and you know it.”

She laughs, and adjusts his collar. “Thanks, love.”

“Now,” Grantaire continues with a red-lipped pout, batting his eyelashes ridiculously. “Which one of you handsome men is gonna get me a drink?”  
Jehan smiles. “Enjolras drank his, so you can both get drinks together.”

He turns towards the punch table without even checking to see if Grantaire is following.

~

Grantaire was expecting the reaction of his friends, and while he was expecting Enjolras to be his righteous self, he wasn’t actually expecting Enjolras to be as silent and stoic as he was. 

Enjolras downed his drink when Grantaire joined their friends. Even for Enjolras that’s a bit much. 

Following Enjolras (always, always following Enjolras), Grantaire turns toward the refreshment table as well. He coughs awkwardly as he stands next to Enjolras.

“So,” he starts. “Angels. Cool. You look nice.”

Enjolras actually sends a smile in return. It was small, but Grantaire had never seen anything like it directed at him. Not even a minute earlier Enjolras was glaring at the floor, refusing to even look at Grantaire.

“French maid,” Enjolras says back. “Good choice.”

“I’m doing it for the people!” he raises a fist. “Vive la France!” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes - ah, yes. This is the Enjolras he knows and loves. “So you dressed as an over sexualized French maid for the people of France?”

“Girls from a young age are expected to dress up as ‘sexy versions’ of every day things,” Grantaire says with a smirk, brushing Enjolras’ cheek with his feather duster - something he immediately regrets when he sees Enjolras’ face. He coughs slightly. “So I say, fuck that, if girls are expected to look like that, why shouldn’t I be sexualized as well?”

He gestures down at himself and wiggles his hips. Enjolras looks at the floor; Grantaire mentally hits himself.

“So…” he says, pouring himself a drink. “You having a nice time? Courfeyrac can plan a great party.” God, why is he like this. Making awkward conversation with Enjolras at the refreshment table.

Enjolras looks like he was actually taking the time to think about it. What a strange sight - Grantaire was used to him spouting idealistic bullshit and cutting words without a thought.

“Well, Courf is here as Marie-Antoinette and Marius is here as Napoleon. Courfeyrac spiked the punch and Bahorel is practically naked - but other than that. Courfeyrac has done worse.”

Grantaire is half-speechless. “Did you just say something nice about a masquerade that Courfeyrac made you go to?”

The only thing properly Enjolras about his response is his eye roll. “I can enjoy things, R.”

This night is full of surprises, because Enjolras has never called him R in his life.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Well, I don’t have work tomorrow,” Enjolras points out as he fills his glass. “Might as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (My ko-fi https://ko-fi.com/softgrantaire)


	3. Chapter 3

‘Might as well’ turns out to be just two drinks. Though he’d been drinking wine with dinner since he was eight years old, Enjolras still wasn’t great at holding his drink, and would rather stick to being the sober friend that videos his drunk friends for later blackmailing purposes. 

Sobriety was always preferable to Enjolras. The last time he was so drunk he couldn’t recall his own name was two years ago, when he could finally drink after having top surgery and his friends wanted to use his happiness as a reason to celebrate.

He was currently wondering if he could sneak to the refreshments table without Bahorel seeing him.

(Ever since Enjolras explained the logistics of top surgery, Bahorel has been much too interested in his nipples.

“Okay, I would never do this without your consent, but since you told me they have to remove your nipples for surgery, could I please flick your nipple? I need to see if it falls off.” 

A drunk, mostly naked Bahorel was the last person Enjolras wanted to flick his nipples.)

Grantaire, having seemingly read his thoughts, sidled up to him with a tall pitcher of water, two glasses, and a plate piled with finger food.

“Thought you might need this,” Grantaire says, handing Enjolras one of the glasses and a sandwich. “Bahorel is guarding the refreshment table, and I know you don’t want to accidentally see certain bits of Bahorel that may give you nightmares. I’ve seen it, it’s nothing to write home about.”

Enjolras pulls his brows together and tilts his head.

Grantaire laughs. “Don’t worry, there was no amorous congress. We shared a flat one year, and he wasn’t great at keeping doors closed.”

“Amorous congress?” Enjolras chuckles, definitely not relieved that Bahorel and Grantaire didn’t have sex.

“I don’t sleep well,” Grantaire explains with a chuckle of his own. “The internet is my friend on such nights, though I usually spend hours looking at strange facts, or historical slang for sex.”

“Any examples?” Normally Enjolras would have rolled his eyes and walked off, for Grantaire’s vulgarity was not something he usually partook in. But tonight, as he’s said, he might as well.

“What, planning on having sex in 18th century England?”

“Well,” Enjolras shrugs. “Never know!”

Grantaire chokes on his water slightly.

“Umm. Okay? Well,” he seems to think before laughing to himself. “I think you’ll like this one. Taking a flyer - flyers being shoes in the 19th century - was slang for having sex clothed, or with shoes on.”

Enjolras is torn between laughter and abject horror. Never would he be able to hand out flyers without thinking about sex, which he’s sure, is exactly what Grantaire wants.

“Also a lobster kettle is - ”

Enjolras smiles as he listens to Grantaire. He’s gesturing wildly, and has probably smiled more in his presence tonight than he has in their whole time knowing each other.

As it turns out, he was the only one who found sobriety preferable, though Grantaire - surprisingly - also wasn’t as drunk as Enjolras had expected him to be. 

When there was a natural lull in the conversation, Enjolras brings this up.

“Not drinking yourself?” Enjolras asks.

This earns a lopsided grin as well as a slight laugh. “Nah, they’re messing with my anti-depressants, and recommend low alcohol intake. Which, a year ago would have been akin to hell on earth. But as I’m slightly less of an alcoholic, it’s slightly less horrific. Slightly.” 

Enjolras tries not to look startled. He hadn’t known Grantaire had been cutting down on his drinking; he’d known Grantaire was taking anti-depressants, as he's always been very vocal about his mental illness.

“Was there something wrong with them?” Enjolras asks. “Your anti-depressants, I mean.”

Grantaire smiles softly and refills Enjolras’s glass of water. “Just weren’t agreeing with me. Talk therapy has been going really well, and while I’m hardly ‘cured’, I don’t need the same dose I was getting.”

Enjolras smiles back. He felt like he’s getting an insight to a part of Grantaire he didn’t usually have access to, and prayed it would continue.

“Though, honestly, are you having fun, angel face?” Grantaire smirks, knowing this wasn’t Enjolras’s idea of fun. “Courfeyrac seems to be having fun.”

Enjolras laughs softly. “If Courfeyrac is having fun, that’s all that matters. It’s his birthday, of course.”

He takes a sip, turning to Grantaire. “What about you? Are you having fun?”

Grantaire shrugs and sends him a lopsided grin. “My friends are here, I’m talking to an angel…can’t complain.”

Enjolras flushes. He knows Grantaire is just joking, but his words still affect him. Like all of Grantaire’s words, it seems.

It wasn’t long before Courfeyrac had taken off most of his costume, including his wig, and was now dressed solely in stockings and a loosened corset. 

Unfortunately, he had decided they needed to play a game.

“Spin the bottle!” Courfeyrac yells, calling everyone - all dozen friends - from their various corners of the room. Enjolras suddenly can’t fathom why he’s friends with him.

“Courfeyrac, you do know we’re all adults, right?” Feuilly asks, even as he joins the rest of the group in the center of the café. Enjolras silently agrees with Feuilly, but follows as well.

“I know for a fact that half of you want to play this game,” Courfeyrac responds when all of them gather around. Bahorel, Joly, and Jehan all nod. Enjolras sighs. Spin the bottle it is. Damn him for being the birthday boy.

They form a circle around an empty wine bottle Courfeyrac had materialized. Grantaire looks like he’d rather be any where else; Enjolras tries not to be disappointed.

Courfeyrac, of course, goes first. Enjolras watches the bottle spin ‘round until it landed on Jehan. Courfeyrac, being Courfeyrac, practically launches himself at Jehan, kissing him messily. Jehan laughed as he pushed him off. Jehan spins and lands on Bahorel (which was uncomfortably sexual), then Bahorel spins and lands on Feuilly. Their kiss is short and didn’t involve nearly as much saliva as Courfeyrac and Jehan’s, or Bahorel and Jehan’s did.

“I knew this would be a good idea,” Courfeyrac grins. “Spread the love, my friends.”

It goes on for a few spins without complaints or dramas, until Joly lands on Grantaire - kissing him sweetly on the cheek.

“I didn’t want to smear lipstick, of course,” says Joly when he sits back down. Courfeyrac and Bahorel are booing, claiming Joly cheated, but Joly ignores them and just takes a sip of punch. 

But then it’s Grantaire’s turn to spin. Enjolras watches as the bottle goes ‘round and ‘round. When it stops, it’s to the gasps of everyone gathered. 

“Right, right! Time for the game to stop!” Feuilly says. “Great fun, but definitely time.”

Enjolras looks up from where he was transfixed, staring at the bottle as it pointed straight towards him. 

“What? There’s no need to stop,” he protests, because all of a sudden it is imperative that he kisses Grantaire. Grantaire makes a small noise in the back of his throat.

Enjolras gets to his knees and with the kind of determination he usually reserves for speeches, crawls toward Grantaire, who is looking at him blankly.

“Sorry about your lipstick,” he shrugs.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire says. “But really, you don’t have to do this. It’s just a stupid game, I mean, who even let Courf do this - “

And finally, Enjolras found a way to shut Grantaire up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! My ko-fi is ko-fi.com/softgrantaire!


	4. Chapter 4

Grantaire sighs, throwing himself into the chair across from Jehan with such force that his cup rattled on the table. “He left, Jehan. I was going to make him breakfast, and he just. Left.”

 

Jehan gently rests a hand over Grantaire’s. “Oh, hun. I’m sorry.”

 

There was a beat.

 

“Who left?”

 

Grantaire sighs. Just his luck Jehan couldn’t read his mind.

 

“Enjolras.”

 

“Enjolras?” Jehan gasps, setting his cup back on its saucer. “Enjolras?! Did you and Enjolras hook up?!”

 

Grantaire drops his head to the table. 

 

It was less than twelve hours ago, and so vivid in his mind. The way Enjolras looked beneath him, better than anything he’d ever dreamt. Nervous, yet unwavering. The soft moans Grantaire heard from Enjolras as he was between his thighs. The way he looked after, gently gasping for breath.

 

Grantaire thought it meant something, that it was the start of something. As usual when it comes to Enjolras, though, he was wrong.

 

He could still feel the scratches Enjolras left behind, hands grasping at Grantaire’s shoulders. The echo of soft blond hair between his fingers. Wrists clutched in one hand.

 

“Yes,” Grantaire whines. “And then he was gone when I woke up.”

 

Grantaire could tell Jehan was trying not to get angry at Enjolras. He plays with the cuff of his jacket before shrugging it off. “It can all be blamed on Courfeyrac and his ridiculous game, I suppose. Just a simple kiss in front of friends that turned into a more intimate kiss in a supply closet.” Grantaire looks down at the table. “Then we went back to mine, and it-”

 

“Got even more intimate?”

 

Grantaire sighs again.

 

~

 

Enjolras enters the café just as Grantaire is leaving; he tries not to feel disappointed at his departure. 

 

He absolutely does not notice the bags under Grantaire’s eyes, nor the way his simple t shirt stretches across his shoulders as he pulls on his jacket. His chest absolutely does not tighten when they make quick eye contact over Jehan’s head. 

 

“Is tomorrow afternoon okay for your tutoring?” Grantaire is saying, eyes back on Jehan. “Usual time and place?”

 

Jehan smiles - he hasn’t noticed Enjolras yet. “Sounds perfect!”

 

“Goodbye _, t_ _esoro_ _.”_ Enjolras sees Jehan’s cheeks turn pink as Grantaire kisses the top of his head with a flourish. Grantaire looks to Enjolras and nods.

 

And with that, Grantaire leaves the café. He’s not at all jealous that Grantaire hadn’t said goodbye to him like he had Jehan. The tightening in his chest was to do with too much caffeine (though he hadn’t even had a cup yet). 

 

Jehan notices Enjolras then, and smiles widely. Enjolras can’t help but notice it isn’t as genuine as Jehan’s smiles usually are.

 

“Enjolras! I’m so glad you could make it,” he says as Enjolras drops into the seat Grantaire just vacated. “Would you like a cup of coffee before we get started?”

 

“Get started?” Enjolras asks. “On what?”

 

“Well,” Jehan says, “you don’t often ask me for coffee, so I assume something’s on your mind that you don’t want to talk to Combeferre or Courfeyrac about.”

 

“That’s not the reason I’m here,” Enjolras protests. 

 

Jehan just raises a brow and leaves to order their coffee. Enjolras tries not to feel a bit guilty, because that was almost the reason he asked Jehan for coffee.

 

It’s not too long before Jehan returns, setting his coffee in front of him.

 

“Tutoring? What is Grantaire tutoring you for?” Enjolras inquires, before Jehan even has a chance to speak.

 

“I’m teaching him Italian and R’s helping me with a project for my world religions class.” Jehan smiles even as he rolls his eyes. “There are a handful of sources that he says weren’t translated properly from Hebrew, so he’s helping with that. We have sessions a couple times a week-ish.”

 

“Grantaire speaks Hebrew?” Enjolras asks, perplexed.

 

Jehan nods slowly as if Enjolras was being ridiculous. “He’s Jewish. His father was Jewish. I don’t think he practices the religion as much, but I know he does still consider himself Jewish.”

 

Enjolras stares. He didn’t know any of this.

 

Jehan pauses while taking a sip of his tea and stares at him. His face is stoic and his eyes unblinking. The fact that he didn’t need to blink was unnerving.

 

“You know nothing of Grantaire, do you?” Jehan spoke after almost half a minute of staring. He almost sounds angry. “You’ve known him for years, but you still just see him as the drunk at the back of meetings who makes offhand comments to get you fighting. But you genuinely don’t know anything.”

 

“Just because I don’t know as much about him as the rest of you doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about Grantaire.” Enjolras was defensive. Grantaire is his friend, even if Grantaire didn’t consider that friendship mutual, of course he knows things about him. “I know that he’s intelligent. I know that he loves his friends more than anything in the world. I know that he has a sister.” He knows the way Grantaire’s eyes light up when he makes someone laugh, the way his smile softens around Joly and Bossuet, the way he plays with his cuffs when he’s nervous. The way he says _‘Sure, Enjolras’_ with a small humourless smile whenever Enjolras says anything particularly self righteous. The way he refuses to accept compliments. The way Enjolras always says the wrong thing in his presence. 

 

The way he looks above him. The way his arms feel around him as he falls asleep.

 

Jehan was watching him, his eyes softening slightly.

 

“We know things about Grantaire because we care enough to ask,” Jehan says gently. Enjolras tries not to flinch at his almost pitying tone. “If you’d ask, he’d probably tell you. Though seeing as he’s just as bad at communicating as you are, he’d probably actually just say, _‘It doesn’t matter’_ if you asked.”

 

Enjolras sighs. That does sound like the Grantaire he knows.

 

“I’m not going to tell you his origin story, nor will I tell you everything about him. That’s something he needs to do himself.”

 

Enjolras smiles softly. Jehan was too good, but Enjolras knew that if he were to get information from any of Les Amis, it would be Jehan - the poet is notorious for saying more than he should.

 

“Are French and Hebrew the only language he knows?”

 

Jehan laughs. “ _Non_. His mother is Spanish, so he’s fluent in Spanish as well. He calls me pretentious, but he loves to remind everyone he’s multilingual by using Spanish endearments left and right.”

 

Enjolras tries to take it all in. “His mother is Spanish?”

 

Jehan groans softly. “Yes, Enjolras. He does go on about it, you know. I’m pretty sure most of Paris knows the tragic love story of his staunch Spanish Catholic mother and his French Jewish father who divorced when they couldn’t decide on how to raise their children. Now, would you like another cup of coffee?”

 

“Yes, please,” Enjolras answers. He didn’t realize his cup was empty until Jehan offered to buy him another.

 

“Oh, dammit, Jehan,” he says quietly to himself as gets up. “You said you wouldn’t tell him anything.”

 

Enjolras watches him leave and then stares down at his hands. Well, if discovering Grantaire was going to be a challenge, then so be it. He’s never been one to turn down a challenge. 

 

“So, what’s up?” Jehan asks when he returns. “I’m assuming this has to do with Grantaire.”

 

“Am I that obvious?” Enjolras asks, groaning slightly.

 

“Not as obvious as R, I’ll give you that.” Jehan laughs. “But I don’t think anybody is as obvious as R.”

 

“So, if I were to say, ask you something about Grantaire, would you tell me?” Enjolras can tell Jehan is going to refuse, so he tacks on a quiet, “Please.”

 

Jehan sighs, but nods. “Ask away.”

 

“Favourite movie?”

 

Jehan rolls his eyes. “2005 _Pride and Prejudice_. It has everything, you know. Pining, period clothing, pretentious orations of love.”

 

Enjolras smiles. That does sound like Grantaire.

 

He shakes his head. Not the time for pining, or having a freakout over the fact that he’s pining at all. He’s on a mission.

 

“Favourite author?”

 

“Oscar Wilde. Gay icon.”

 

“I thought Grantaire was bisexual?” Enjolras questions.

 

“He is,” Jehan answers. “That doesn’t mean Oscar Wilde can’t still be his gay icon.”

 

Enjolras hums.

 

“Favourite artist?”

 

“Almost every Pre-Raphaelite,” Jehan smiles. “He’s in the process of a painting depicting me as Henry Wallis’s _[Death of Chatterton](https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/wallis-chatterton-n01685)_. It’s a bit macabre, I’ll give you that, but it’s a beautiful piece.” 

 

Enjolras hums again, nodding like he knows what that painting is. He makes a mental note to look it up later.

 

“Any phobias?”

 

“Failing and being buried alive,” Jehan pauses. “And geese.”

 

“Geese?” Enjolras pulls his brows together. He understands the fear of failing intimately, but geese?

 

“They’re terrifying!” Jehan cries. “Now, that’s all I’m telling you. Would you like a pastry?”

 

Enjolras begins to protest, but then settles back to enjoy coffee with Jehan. The work has only just begun, of course.

 

The first person he approaches is Combeferre later that night.


	5. Chapter 5

 

The first person he approaches is Combeferre later that night.

 

“Combeferre, what do you know about Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, apropos of nothing when Combeferre walks through the door. 

 

Combeferre makes a questioning sound. “You could have at least waited until I removed my shoes, Enjolras.”

 

Enjolras makes a noise that he’d like to come across as vaguely apologetic, but even to his ears sounded more like a scoff than anything.

 

When Combeferre does as such, he rounds the table to sit on the opposite. He stops halfway to his destination and stares at Enjolras’ computer where it’s sat in front of him. 

 

“Are you making an Excel spreadsheet entitled Grantaire?” Enjolras wishes there was more surprise in his tone. “Again?”

 

Enjolras sniffs. “Yes. Yes I am.”

 

Combeferre sighs but sits down. “You know I’m not going to tell you everything about Grantaire, correct?”

 

Enjolras will defend himself to his dying day; he was a grown man, he didn’t pout. “But you’re my best friend. You should be on my side with this.”

 

Combeferre sighs again. “Is there a reason you want to know more about Grantaire?”

 

“I had coffee with Jehan today, and he told me a few things that I didn’t know then accused me of not knowing anything about Grantaire. He also stared at me without blinking for a whole minute, which was frightening.”

 

“You could always ask Grantaire, you know,” he responds, not touching on Jehan not blinking for a whole minute - it was Jehan. “He probably knows more about himself that I do.”

 

“I’d like to - it’s just…he’s mad at me because we. You know. At Courfeyrac’s party.”

 

“You kissed during Spin the Bottle, why would he be upset with you? Courfeyrac licked half of the glitter off of Jehan’s face at one point. What you did was hardly something to be upset about.”

 

“Well, you see,” Enjolras says, looking down. “After that we kind of…”

 

“Kind of?” This is apparentlynews to Combeferre. “Kind of what?

 

“We kind of spent half an hour making out against the door in the maintenance closet and then we went to his place and kind of had sex then I snuck out while he was still sleeping and now he’s mad at me,” Enjolras says in one breath. 

 

Combeferre pauses. He removes his glasses and then pinches the bridge of his nose. “So, let me get this straight. You and Grantaire snuck away to the maintenance closet, kissed for half an hour, went to his flat, had sex, and then you freaked out and ran away. And now he’s mad.”

 

“That sounds about right,” Enjolras grimaces. Combeferre puts his glasses back on.

 

“Right,” he responds after a few seconds of just staring. “I’m calling Courfeyrac.”

 

Apparently Courfeyrac is already on his way (“Of course he is.”), so it doesn’t take him long to arrive. When he does, it’s to discover Enjolras sat on the floor in the kitchenette. 

“Why is Enjolras on the floor?”

 

“According to him, chairs aren’t good enough for sulking.”

 

“I didn’t say that,” Enjolras cries. “And I am not sulking.”

 

“Yes you are,” Combeferre and Courfeyrac say simultaneously.

 

“How would you know? You don’t even know why I would be sulking. I’m not sulking!”’

 

“I mean, if you explained it, that would be helpful,” Courfeyrac says. Combeferre explains the situation as the both join Enjolras on the floor.

 

Combeferre watches as Courfeyrac very obviously tries not to freak out. “Are you sure?”

 

“Am I sure? Sure about what?” Enjolras responds. “Am I sure we kissed? Am I sure we had sex? Am I sure I snuck out? Am I sure he’s mad at me? Yes, Courfeyrac, I’m sure.”

 

“And…how do you feel about all of that?” Courfeyrac asks, clasping his hands. Enjolras sends him a droll look.

 

“Obviously I don’t feel great,” Enjolras looks at him like it’s obvious. “One of my friends is mad at me because we were intimate.”

 

Courfeyrac stares incredulously at him. “You hooked up, and you ran away. I don’t think he’s _mad_ at you, I think he’s upset. R is really fucking sensitive, can you blame him for being hurt?”

 

Enjolras tilts his head to one side. “Why would he be upset? It didn’t mean anything.”


End file.
